A terrible confidence in my love.
He had mistaken forgiveness for immunity.
“I still love you,” I said. “That is not the same as making this disappear.”
“I know.”
He slid an envelope across the table.
Inside was the first payment from him, separate from Brittany’s.
It was not enough to cover much.
That did not matter.
“I am going to pay back all of it,” he said.
“You cannot pay back the albums you lost.”
His face folded.
“I know.”
“You cannot pay me for your father’s shirts.”
“I know.”
“Then do not confuse repayment with repair.”
He swallowed.
“What is repair?”
I looked at my son, the boy whose baby clothes had been sold with my other memories, the man who had used my patience as permission.
“Time,” I said. “Truth. Different behavior. And no guarantees.”
He nodded.
That was the beginning.
Not a reunion.
A beginning.
By spring, Ryan was allowed to visit me for coffee.
He knocked every time.
He never used a key because he did not have one.
Brittany came once, separately, to return a framed photograph she had tracked down through the woman who bought a box of household items. It was a picture of Tom and me dancing at Ryan’s wedding.
She handed it to me with both hands.
“I thought you should have this.”
“Thank you.”
